


Alone You Hang In Ruins

by gayalondiel



Series: watsons_woes July 2011 challenge [7]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Drugs, Gen, Minor Character Death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-07-28
Updated: 2011-07-28
Packaged: 2017-10-21 21:38:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 836
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/230114
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gayalondiel/pseuds/gayalondiel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After Bill Murray’s funeral John seeks relief in one of the worst ways he could.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Alone You Hang In Ruins

**Author's Note:**

> watsons_woes LJ community posted a daily prompt challenge for July 2011 wherein you had to respond within 24 hours. These are my responses, so they are a little hasty and unpolished. Also damned weird.
> 
>  **July 7: Falling**
> 
>  **Warnings:** Discussion of suicide; drug abuse. This is not a happy place. I don’t actually recommend reading it.  
>  **Disclaimer:** The Holmes characters fall in the public domain: This version falls under the creative control of Messers Moffatt and Gatiss, and the BBC. No ownership is implied or inferred. This is done for love only.  
>  **AN:** Right. I’ve had a REALLY BAD DAY. I don’t normally do this - don’t post them, anyway - but there really wasn’t any way I was going to write anything less than devastating.

Heedless of propriety, John threw open the door to Sherlock’s room and stalked in purposefully. Its owner was out, no doubt off hassling detectives at some crime scene somewhere. It left John free to explore his room, throwing things aside haphazardly as he searched for something he’d never seen but knew was there, had to be there. He dug through cluttered shelves and surfaces, scattering papers and nicotine patches across the floor, and moved on to the drawers. His mind whirled with pain and anger.

The funeral had been a small, quiet affair, just the Murrays, John and a couple of other close friends. There had been talk of a guard of honour but John had walked in on Bill’s mum screaming down the phone to the chaplain about a government that talked and talked and wrote their damned covenants and then left a wounded veteran to fend for himself with sweet buggerall counselling because the assessor took his word that he was fine. After that no-one dared say “Army” within fifty feet of her.

He could barely comprehend that Bill was gone. Bill who had hauled him back to the convoy with a bullet in his shoulder. Bill who had been invalided back home two months after him with one leg missing. Bill who had laughed, and joked, and dragged John away to the pub when Sherlock was getting to him or when there was a test match on. Bill who had always, always smiled.

Bill who had got on the train to Bristol, gone out across the bridge, leant on the rail and, before anyone could realise what he was doing, hauled himself over the edge and away.

Deep in the back of Sherlock’s sock drawer, and wasn’t that a cliché, John’s hand closed on a small leather case and he pulled it out, knowing immediately he had found his mark. He sat on the edge of the bed and unzipped the case. It dropped open to reveal a small bottle of purified water, several papers full of white powder and a selection of needles. He felt his hands begin to shake slightly, and the urge to smash the needles and vial and destroy it all almost overcame him, but he mastered himself.

The last year had been a blaze of light and adrenaline, but now he just felt tired, and sore as though his skin was too tight over flesh and bone. For the last week he had been numb, incapable of taking in reality and unwilling to do much beyond working and sitting in his chair, staring, until even Sherlock had started tiptoeing around him with concerned care. Watching the coffin being drawn back behind the curtain had broken something, and all the pain and acid burn of loss spilled out over him.

He had slipped away from the wake after a couple of drinks and obligatory chats where everyone refused to say anything but how wonderful and happy Bill had been, because obviously wonderful and happy people threw themselves off bridges all the time. He walked further than he should have, longing for something, anything to take off the edge of the misery that the beers had not helped with. It was not until he was rounding the corner of Baker Street that he had thought of the insane, obvious answer.

 _I am clean!_

 _Is your flat?_

He was prepared before he knew it, estimating quantities because if he stopped and thought about this it would be too easy to come back to himself, to stop, and to have to deal with the world and grief and weight of living. He noticed a leather thong in the bottom of the case under the still-wrapped needles. Sherlock was prepared. With clinical efficiency he pulled it tight around his arm, took up the needle, and with just a whisper of hesitation slid the point neatly into the rising vein.

The street door slammed just as he depressed the plunger, and as the cool liquid sent chills up towards his skin he heard familiar footsteps climbing the stairs. He focused enough to withdraw the empty syringe. The door to the flat opened and he heard a voice call his name. Waves of warmth seemed to be flooding him, washing over him, and he let his eyes drift shut. Let the feelings take him. From far away he could hear something ringing. He felt a gust of air but could not look to see the bedroom door swing open.

 _”John!”_ Sherlock’s voice seemed to be a whisper and a shout both at once.

Then he looked up, his flatmate’s face too clear and too bright, and he reached out a hand to touch it. Notice that his hand was trembling. Why was it trembling? Something pressed it, and he saw that Sherlock was gripping it with his own. He moved, and John moved with him, until strong arms were around him holding him tightly while he trembled through the contesting ripples of euphoria and grief.


End file.
